no water

no water
tastes quite right since
leaving home—
too soft
not the right kind of hard
I tried ice cold
bottled plastic and glass
hot with tea leaves
Learned ‘tap water’
in a dozen languages
never finding
what would quench a nostalgia at the tip of my tongue
not yet remembered
maybe once I think away
it fades in each move
I drink sparkling
so the bubbles will burst
the disappointment
on my immigrant tongue
that has forgotten
where the water
tasted right

I say
, sigh,
before men came
from Europe
from China
before
they asked
'where are you from?'
fluid fluent
people asked
'where
what
is your
watershed?'
that
tastes
right.
Through
every time
that is forgetting
the watershed
we come from
before flowing away.